G (8) went to the dentist last week. I sat alone in the waiting room, paging through magazines designed for housewives and middle aged mothers, calmly thinking how I don't fit into either of these categories. (Denial. I haz it.)
Out strolled Dr. B. Or Jack. Or Dr. Jack. I don't know what to call him, so let's go with Jack. Out strolled Jack. He looked around and seemed pleased with the fact that we were alone in this media filled waiting room. And then. He. Spoke.
Jack: How's he brushing? (Translation: You're a horrible parent.)
Me: Oh, well, we remind him to brush twice a day, but I don't hold his hand while he does it. (Translation: Dude, I lost a baby in September and I'm pregnant again. The sheer fact that this kid has a toothbrush is a testament to how much I do NOT suck.)
Jack: Well, we have some cavities in some baby teeth. (Cue the dramatic music.)
Me: Huh. Well, what're we going to do about that? (Because clearly, you have the degree, you should have the plans, right?)
Jack: David is going to bring him in. *YOU* are not to say the following words to him: needle, drill, pain, recovery, or trauma. (In other words, he knows I'm a spaz. And he's right. He's the guy who writes my scripts for anti-anxiety meds when I need a filling.)
Me: Okay. But when you use the needle to drill into his skull, how much pain will he be in during recovery and will it traumatize him for the rest of his life? (That took skill, man. Nailed it. Hit every single "no" word.)
Jack: (Smiles and rolls his eyes.) Seriously, though, this is a Dad thing.
Me: Sigh. You guys have all the fun.
Had I had this conversations 18 months ago, it would have been tragic. I would have probably lamented my failure as a parent. Oh! Woe is me! My darling son has a cavity... or three. The world is ending. But strangely, it just isn't that... horrible. It's life. It happens. They're baby teeth and this is a major lesson in his little life.
Plus, I don't have to take him. Doctor's orders. Sometimes being a spaz has its perks.
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